Factory thief, p.1
Factory Thief, page 1
FACTORY THIEF
THE FACTORY
OLIVIA RIGAL
LADY O PUBLISHING
THE FACTORY
.
They call themselves the Foundation for an Active, Optimized and Rich Youth, we call them the F.ACT.O.R.Y.
They took us in as broken kids, spared no expenses to put us back together.
When they thought we were ready they sent us out to the world to live our lives.
We were set loose but not free.
Each of us owes them one Favor.
And now they’ve come to collect.
BLURB
Victoria
I steal things, not people.
At least I didn’t, until The Factory asked me to steal a man.
And not just any man—Jack Drake.
He’s in solitary confinement at a maximum-security prison.
I’ve broken into worse places.
And I’m about to break free of my obligation to The Factory.
All I have to do is bring him back to them, and then I’ll disappear again.
They want him alive, which is good, because I’m not an assassin.
But he’s keeping a dark secret, one that could get us both killed.
Now is the worst possible time to fall in love.
I’m totally unprepared for the wild heat between us.
I should turn him over to my contact, but I can’t.
It’s more than just scorching kisses and clandestine caresses.
He’s captured my soul, and he refuses to let me go.
Jack
The Factory sent a woman to kidnap me from prison.
Escaping is the easy part, resisting her is much harder.
She wants to bring me back to them, but there’s no way I’m going.
Somebody set me up.
To keep their secret safe, they planted evidence and I was convicted of murder.
I need to go public with the information that I stole.
But Victoria doesn’t believe me.
She thinks I’m a monster.
I think she’s the most frustrating, beguiling, irresistible woman I’ve ever met.
I should be thinking with my head, but I’m not.
My thoughts are in the gutter and it’s taking every ounce of strength that I have to keep my hands to myself.
If I crack, she’ll accomplish her mission.
If she cracks, I’ll accomplish mine.
It’s a stand-off and time is running out for us.
CONTENTS
1. Victoria
2. Victoria
3. Jack
4. Victoria
5. Jack
6. Victoria
7. Jack
8. Victoria
9. Jack
10. Jack
11. Victoria
12. Jack
13. Victoria
14. Jack
15. Victoria
16. Jack
17. Victoria
18. Jack
19. Victoria
20. Jack
21. Victoria
22. Jack
23. Victoria
24. Jack
25. Victoria
26. Jack
27. Jack
28. Victoria
29. Jack
30. Victoria
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VICTORIA
Silver moonlight splashes amorphous shadows across the well-manicured lawn before me. Crouched on the twelve-foot-high privacy fence surrounding the post-modern six-bedroom house, I have a great vantage on my target; the smallish attic window situated over the ten-car garage across the lawn.
Beautiful as it is, the full moon overhead presents a problem. The privacy fence doesn’t fully block the view from the neighbor’s bedroom window. Should they happen to glance out while I speed across the grass, they’re going to see me.
But I don’t have much choice. Fred Wilson, the rich A-hole who owns this overwrought example of insipidly artistic architecture, is only going to be out of town this weekend. It’s now or never.
I check my mechanical watch in the light of the moon. No screen or digital glow means it doesn’t give away my position in the dark. The quartz casing can reflect light, which is why I keep it tucked under my long, black sleeve. It’s well after midnight. The neighbor’s window is a dark rectangle against the lighter façade of their ivory walls.
I stare at the ground twelve feet below, gauging the distance. I drop off the wall and hit feet first, then leap into a forward somersault to eat up the momentum. When I come up to my feet I run across the yard, a dark flash in the night.
The side of the garage looms before me, a wide window offering a shadowed glimpse at the hulks of high-end vehicles. I don’t slow down, leaping into the air and planting my left foot on the edge of the windowsill.
Using my momentum, I launch myself into the air and snag hold of the edge of the roof with both hands. I shimmy sideways, my body swinging below me. The roof shingles feel rough and gritty beneath my fingertips.
I flip over to a section of the garage near a streetlight. I climb up the pole and stand atop the roof at last.
No time to savor my victory. I move with a swift, careful tread toward the attic window. There are windows far easier to access on Wilson’s miniature castle, but they all have motion sensors protecting them.
Not this window, though. They probably figured the steel fan set inside would be enough of a deterrent.
They thought wrong. Last night I downloaded a PDF on exactly how to install and uninstall one of these attic fans, and I learned it by heart and then watched three videos. The internet is an incredible source of information. Moving with precision, I use my electric screwdriver to remove the cumbersome fan.
A poly-carbon sheath muffles most of the noise of my driver, but not all. Breaking into places for a living helps develop a sixth sense. I’m usually listening to everything and anything all at once. The driver robs me of that sense, and I can’t help but feel anxious.
The fan out of my way, I climb through the opening left behind. My nose wrinkles in disgust at the disarray in the attic. It looks like anything left over from construction or childhood got shoved up here. I pass by one of those Furby things turned over on its side atop a stack of Spanish hardwood tile. Hmm. Too bad I didn’t bring in a driver on this caper. If I had, I could make an additional profit. This stack of tile is worth at least seven grand.
No time to worry about that. I creep along the attic floor and reach the severe, narrow stairwell leading down to the third floor. The smell of a pine cleaner mingles with lavender. I find myself in a hallway lined with artwork. Oil paintings, the obligatory bust on a pedestal, and…is that a tapestry? An actual freaking tapestry? Who the hell has a tapestry in this day and age?
Shaking my head, I pad silently down the hallway to Wilson’s study. Now that I think about it, that tapestry was kind of cool. Maybe I can make off with it, too…How much could it weigh?
I reach his office door and roll my eyes when I find it locked. Sighing, I crouch down and get my lockpick kit out. Fortunately, it’s a standard knob lock instead of a tricker deadbolt or spindle lock.
Using a flat piece of metal between door and frame, I push the latch bolt aside and the door pops open with ease. Glancing around Wilson’s office, I grunt with contempt at his taste in décor. Everything is polished metal and black, giving it a boring clinical feel.
Who cares? It’s the painting on the wall I’m after, anyway. I make sure the curtains are closed extra tight, shut the door, and flick on my flashlight.
I’ve got to admit, it’s a compelling work of art, all right. The Storm on the Sea of Galilee. An original work by Rembrandt, it’s a dark, masterful, and moody piece of Jesus and the disciples crossing the sea. A massive wave breaks against the prow of their little vessel, endangering them all.
This masterpiece used to live in the Isabella Stewart Garner Museum in Boston. It was stolen in 1990 and remained missing since. Well, not for everybody obviously.
One of the disciples—I can never tell them apart—is actually puking his guts out, which is funny. Then there’s Jesus himself. He’s supposed to look calm, but honestly, in that situation, he just looks like a guy on too much alprazolam.
Enough admiring the work. My fence says I’ll get a cut amounting to three hundred grand for this painting. Time to get it wrapped up for transportation.
I use a very sharp scalpel to cut the canvas away from the frame, paying utmost care with the old fabric. I force myself to remain calm and keep my hand steady. Once the painting has been freed of the frame, I gently lay it on Wilson’s desk and roll it up. I slide it into a mylar sheath and secure it on my back.
I close the office door on my way out and decide against taking anything else. I shall not be greedy. Exiting out of the attic window, I replace the fan, not bothering to put in more than two screws. Just enough to hold it in so the neighbors won’t notice it laying on the garage roof tomorrow morning.
Again, I have to cross the yard in plain sight of the neighbor’s window. I rush through the patch of silver-splashed grass and scramble up the privacy fence. I swing myself over and drop to the ground on the other side.
Mission accomplished. I parked my car a few blocks away, next to a poplar tree. Only a short hike through this wooded patch and I’m home free.
I doff my leather hood and stuff it in my bag as I go. Wilson had security cameras and I didn’t want my face being filmed. It’s a BDSM prop, but what can I say? It stays in place better than a ski mask, which are always sliding around and blinding me.
I come over a slight rise and spot the edge of the woods. My car, a nondescript Toyota sedan, sits in a pool of shadow on the sleepy residential road beyond the tree line.
“That’s far enough.”
I freeze when the cold, hard barrel of a pistol jams into the back of my head. The voice is familiar. If it were anyone else, anyone at all, I’d try something to get away. This man I fear will shoot me if I give him half the chance.
“Is that you, Andrew?” I ask. “What a pleasant surprise.”
My calm demeanor belies the cold, gnawing fear in my belly. They’ve found me. After so many years, the Factory has found me at last.
“Aw, do you really mean that? I’m touched. Then again, you always were my favorite pupil. Oh, and you can stop trying to reach for that stun gun you’ve got strapped to your thigh, and put your hands in the air, now.”
“Are you here to kill me, Andrew?”
He doesn’t answer. The gun presses harder into my head, enough to hurt. “Up against that tree.”
I move until I’m pressed against the rough bark of an oak. Andrew keeps the gun against my head while he removes the taser and knife. He snaps the rigid steel of a handcuff manacle around my wrist and, moving the painting out of the way, yanks my arm behind me.
“Is this really necessary?”
“We’ve been looking for you for years, Tori,” Andrew replies, an almost apologetic tone in his voice. “You’re like a ghost. Vanishing like water on a hot griddle when we even get close to your trail.”
“Thank you—ow, that’s too tight.”
“Stop fighting and it won’t hurt so much.”
I feel a sharp pain in my left thumb, accompanied by a metallic click.
“Come on, Andrew, are you kidding me? Thumb cuffs?”
“Are you forgetting I’m the one who taught you to pick locks? Don’t worry, I’m just making sure you stick around for our little chat.”
He steps away, still holding the gun on me. “Turn around.”
I turn about, glaring him down. He looks much the same, an unassuming fortysomething man with sandy blond hair and an entirely forgettable appearance. Andrew has more gray near his temples than he used to, but other than that he hasn’t changed.
“What do you want?”
“It’s time to repay your favor, Tori. We got you out of juvie hall, remember?”
“Yeah and put me to work for you.”
“We trained you to be the best at what you do, free of charge. All you had to do was agree to repay the favor at some point. Instead, you ran.”
“So, this is about revenge?”
Andrew chuckles. “Far from it. Revenge isn’t the Foundation’s style. Too messy, too emotional. No, we just want you to honor the deal you agreed to.”
“When I was a teenager. It’s hardly legally binding.”
“Legality? Really? You, a professional thief, should know better than to throw legality around.”
I sigh. “So, what do you want me to steal?”
Andrew grins. “Not what, who. We want you to get Jack Drake out of prison.”
“The name doesn’t ring a bell.”
Andrew sighs. “He’s the guy convicted of stabbing his elderly neighbor in the back more than fifty times, leaving a smiley face pattern.”
I scowl. I’ve seen the crime scene photos; who hasn’t? It was all over the internet for a while. “Why on earth would you want to break out a sicko like that?”
“That’s not your concern. Your concern is getting him out, alive.”
I consider his proposal. Supermax prisons are not exactly places you can just waltz into. It’s damn near an impossible mission, and I sure ain’t Tom Cruise.
“And if I say no?”
Andrew’s lips become a thin, tight line. His silence scares me more than any threat he could have made. Maybe I’m being over dramatic, but I’ve never heard of anyone refusing to pay their Favor and getting away with it. They’ve lost their fortune or their reputation…My most precious possession is my life. What does the tinge of regret in his eye means? That he would be the one to carry out my death?
“Fine. I’ll do it.”
Andrew smiles, relief flooding his face. “Thank goodness. Turn around, I’ll get those cuffs off. Welcome back to the fold.”
“Piss off!”
Andrew laughed. “That’s as good a way to start as any.”
VICTORIA
An odd sense of relief descends over me after I accept the Factory assignment. Though they want me to do something almost impossible, at least the hammer has finally fallen. I no longer have to look over my shoulder constantly—not for them, at least.
After I see my fence and drop off the Rembrandt, I make the long drive back to my home in Greenwich. One of the reasons I took the painting job was because I didn’t even have to travel out of state to do it. I have a nice, modestly sized house right on Long Island Sound. When I walk in the front door, the first thing I think is how nice that tapestry would have looked hanging in my living room.
Oh well, I’ve got enough money to buy myself a very nice one. And, now that I think of it, Wilson’s was probably stolen. The last thing I need is stolen property in my house.
Acquiring a map of Sandpiper Cove State Prison is my first order of business. Thing is, I don’t have the type of contacts who can provide me with the schematics of a prison. I’m a burglar, not an idiot.
I put out some feelers and wait. While I wait for a return on my investment, I utilize the internet to do as much recon as I can. Google Earth shows a great view of the facility from above. The iconic white X shaped building is the solitary confinement, where Mr. Granny slayer is incarcerated.
Further surfing leads me to a bleeding-heart news special where they talk about inhumane conditions at Sandpiper Cove. It turns out to be a great source of information. I take notes in a pad as I watch, adding sketches of the facility’s interior and creating a miniature map on a piece of graph paper.
The news footage displays how the cell doors work, and it’s quite dismaying. A guard in the station tower—who has full view of every hallway in his purview—uses a control console to open cell doors. It’s all done electronically, no keys, no locks to pick. Just mechanical precision.
I wouldn’t be a good thief if I couldn’t deal with electronic locks, but it requires specialized equipment hard to smuggle in.
By the time my contact comes through with the prison schematics—and a guard handbook, very nice—I’ve already got a pretty good idea of the layout. It’s not going to be easy, but I see a way in and a way out.
I print out the schematics and spread them out on my kitchen table. A saltshaker becomes a guard tower, a pencil the tree line. I add bits and pieces as I go, building my model. A pink eraser shaped like a cat represents Smiling Jack. I slide a black rhinestone around the map, which represents myself.
“Nice place you’ve got here.”
I dive beneath the table and grab the .38 I have hidden in a custom notch beneath. I squirm on my belly to the other side and rear up, exposing only enough of myself to take aim and shoot.
“Relax, Tori. I’m friend, not foe.” Andrew stands in my kitchen.
How in the hell did he get in without me hearing? I remind myself he taught me how to Roach.
“Though if you are going to shoot me, I commend you on your choice of weaponry. The good old Saturday Night Special won’t let you down. Got a hair trigger, though, so if you aren’t going to shoot me, maybe you could…?”
He gestures vaguely in the air. I sigh and set the gun down.
